


Hard to Say, Easy to See

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Models, modelling au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek would do anything for Stiles. What he can do is persuade his boss to let Stiles take photos of him rather than just be in a shoot with him. And surprisingly, it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard to Say, Easy to See

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BewareTheIdes15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/gifts).



> This is for bewaretheides who posted circulated a lovely tumblr post of men in kilts. And I'm sorry bb. You deserve better.
> 
> This is also very indebted to the amazing [Neckz and Throatz](http://neckznthroats.tumblr.com/) project thingy.

With all the shoots they were doing together, something that made Derek rumble in contentment when he saw the schedule, he slowly started to unpick Stiles. He got to see when the endless chatter was covering for something, when Stiles was sad or happy or hungover. He got to know Stiles’s favorite snacks (white chocolate covered pretzels) and he always made sure there were some on the craft table. Stiles would always sigh and pretend he didn’t care but when his energy levels dropped late in the evening, near the end of the more grueling shoots, he would always grab a handful and look like he’d achieved nirvana.

Derek also couldn’t miss the way Stiles was utterly fascinated by the behind the scenes of the shoot. He would ask questions about the cameras, the lighting. He would hang over the photographer’s shoulder when Derek was posing alone. It planted a seed of an idea.

“Lydia?” Derek knocked at her office door. She waved him in, phone clamped to her ear, raking through proofs. She pointed to the seat opposite her desk and Derek lowered himself in slowly. He didn’t have long to wait as she finished yelling at whoever had drawn her wrath.

“What can I do for you, Derek?” Her smile held too many teeth. 

Derek reminded himself that he’d seen her singing along to One Direction. With choreography and everything. Whilst drunk on strawberry wine coolers. “I need you to let Stiles do a shoot.”

“Stiles does shoots. You should know. You’re in most of them.” Lydia leaned back in her chair and watched him. Derek tried not to squirm.

“I want him to take the pictures as well. Of me.” Derek clamped his lips shut. He didn’t want to say anything else. He was probably already revealing too much judging by the gleam in her eyes.

Lydia didn’t say anything about that. Instead she nodded. “I can make that work. But –“ She held out her hand, stopping Derek from moving. “You’re going to owe me.”

Derek nodded. He already owed Lydia pretty much everything anyway. But from the wicked grin she was now sporting, she had some particular favor already in mind. But he ran, or walked as quickly as he could, out of her office. It was only when he leaned against the white wall around the corner and caught his breath that he started to feel excited.

 

“Derek! Dude!” Stiles was late to their shoot but it didn’t matter as they were still setting up the bar set. He was going to be all working scruff and Stiles was getting the suit this time around. He liked that look on him.

“Stiles.” Derek liked the way Stiles’s entire face was just lit up from within.

“You are never gonna believe this. Lydia herself just asked me to do a shoot.” Stiles waved a piece of paper around too quickly for Derek to read it. “Like a proper photographer and all.” He – no other word for it – beamed. 

Wardrobe called for him and Derek was shouted over to do some solo shots being the worst barman in the world, lying on the bar, leaning backwards, legs spread wide. Absolutely no drinks being poured. 

Stiles came and propped his elbows on the wooden bar, arching his back and kicking his feet apart to show his ass off. “I’m just… Fuck. How did she even know I wanted to take pictures as well as, you know, be in them?”

Derek made a non-committal noise. He wanted to know if Lydia had kept the other part of her bargain. He pretended to concentrate on polishing a glass and waited for Stiles to say more. But instead they moved into pose after pose: Derek on the bar again, shirt shoved up; Stiles sprawled on a stool, legs wide apart, Derek kneeling in between them; Derek with Stiles’s tie wrapped in his fist.

It was only when they were back in street clothes, heading out, Stiles already on his phone, that he turned to Derek again. “By the way, Lydia said you were going to be my model. Which is cool. You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Derek stuttered out. Stiles always had this effect on him, like all the words he had to say weren’t suitable and his throat swallowed them up anyway.

Stiles grinned again, crazy happy, his face red from the sudden change in temperature. That made Derek smile back at him before he lifted a hand in a wave and fled.

 

Lydia’s revenge was the theme. Punk. Derek had never really understood his boss’s fascination with guys in big boots with pink hair but it was faintly disturbing that this was what she’d guided Stiles towards. Erica, in charge of his costume, was just delighted. “We can do piercings? Tell me we can?”

Derek shrugged. Piercings for werewolves were a kind of moot point. They healed the instant any jewelry was taken out. Derek just clenched his jaw and put up with Erica’s fussing. She spent an inordinate amount of time on his hair, threaded an oversize safety pin through his ear and insisted on guyliner. Derek didn’t usually bother – a bit of concealer and powder to keep the shine down was his usual routine. But Erica’s excited chatter gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the sinking feeling in his stomach.

He didn’t know why being photographed by Stiles was different to being in photographs with Stiles. They’d done some pretty intimate things, been completely naked. But Derek had always had other people intruding – photographer, make-up. Assistants. He was never sure whose assistants they were but they always hung around. That was more than enough to keep under control. He could always smell other people on Stiles’s skin as well, although that had diminished lately and all Derek wanted to do was cover Stiles in even more of his own scent, until he’d marked his so thoroughly that no one would ever dare touch Stiles except for him.

Maybe that was a little possessive and creepy. Derek resisted the urge to run his hand through his carefully coiffed hair. He was obviously taking lessons from Peter.

 

Stiles was dressed in his street clothes when Derek came through to the studio, hiding himself in layers of plaid, trying to look ordinary. He could never be ordinary to Derek who had to tear his eyes away from him. The set wasn’t anything special or fancy – a white infinity back ground and a bar stool for him to pose on and over. This was just going to be all about him: his teased wild hair, his blackened eyes, his mesh vest, solid black boots and his black leather kilt. 

He looked back to see that Stiles’s jaw had dropped. It wasn’t like he closed his mouth all that often, always talking, pretending pleasure in shoots or sucking on something. But this was definitely different. Stiles started fiddling with a camera and nearly dropped it when Lydia came in, her own camera in her hands. She didn’t do too many shoots these days but here she was, interfering.

“I’m just here to make sure you’re happy, get a few shots of you working together for a sidebar.” Lydia raised her eyebrows at Derek’s glare. Stiles just snapped his mouth shut and nodded. “Let’s get started.”

Stiles nodded again before rolling his shoulders. Then he stripped out of his plaid overshirt, leaving him in just his printed t-shirt and tight jeans and his scruffy Converse. Then he toed out of the shoes. “Feels weird being too dressed.” Stiles’s grin made a fast appearance before he sucked in another breath and pointed at the stool. “Do something that feels comfortable, Derek? Yeah?”

“You should be much more directive. Derek likes it when people tell him what to do.” Derek shot a glare at his openly smirking boss. Under his long eyelashes, Stiles did the same. Derek could hear his heartbeat kick up a notch. It had already been beating a little too quick. Stiles should relax, not worry so much.

“It’s fine,” Derek said, surprised at his voice. He coughed to clear the roughness before settling on the stool, legs apart and his hands on his knees. “This okay?” He looked up to see Stiles worrying at his bottom lip.

“Maybe-“ Stiles lifted the camera and looked at the picture. “Can you…?” He shrugged, let the camera hang from its lanyard. Then he came towards Derek, longer fingers twitching. “Can I?”

“Yes.” Derek kept looking at Stiles as he adjusted the position of his hand, settled the kilt, tilted Derek’s head with gentle but firm fingers. Behind them, he could hear Lydia moving about, taking some pictures. Finally Derek was settled to Stiles’s satisfaction, which unfurled another train of thought about what else he could do to Stiles’s satisfaction. Some of that must have shown on his face as Stiles flushed when he stepped back, tips of his ears red. But he lifted the camera and started clicking, moving around Derek. Every so often he would ask, not demand, that Derek move his head, his arm, widen his legs. He didn’t demand but Derek obeyed like every instruction was a command.

He almost missed Lydia leaving, so caught up in making sure he was behaving for Stiles. His mind wasn’t as passive as it usually was during a shoot, he wasn’t slipping into the mindset of whatever character he was supposed to be playing. Here he was focused utterly on making sure he was perfect for Stiles.

“I’m going to put some music on.” Stiles rolled his shoulders as he pulled back. He fiddled with the speakers before a heavy industrial beat started up. He kept it fairly quiet, matching Derek’s pulse almost perfectly. “Thought it might help with the theme.”

Derek nodded standing and stretching his back. He wasn’t stiff but he wanted to do something, move. He planted his feet wide and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of the kilt. “Some standing?”

Stiles nodded, his heartbeat tripping again before he took refuge behind the camera. “I should do some from the ground.”

“Looking up my kilt?” Derek felt his lip curl in a snarl but instead of looking afraid or slapping him verbally with a sarcastic comment, Stiles just took a picture, and another. He dipped to his knees halfway through the sequence, looking up at Derek. He was silent now, focused in a way Derek rarely saw. Stiles was always moving, pose after pose. This was a different fluidity, as if he had a perfect ideal in mind and was steadily working towards it.

“Lift your shirt.” Stiles’s voice was almost a whisper, a little raw, like he was one the one having to force the words out for a change. Slowly Derek obeyed, never breaking eye contact with Stiles through the camera. Stiles kept clicking as Derek eased up the mesh – the string vest, really – up, over his abs, over his pecs and finally, carefully, over his head. “Turn around and lean on the stool.”

Derek tossed the shirt to the side and did what Stiles asked. Then he went further, trying to prove he’d do anything, everything for Stiles. He lifted the kilt on one side, baring first his thigh and then the curve of his bare ass. Stiles’s breath hitched behind him. “Knee on the stool.”

Finding his balance took a moment but Derek complied, most of his leg bare now. He looked forward, his back to Stiles for a long moment before he couldn’t take it anymore. He ducked his head down, trying to be subtle about looking back over his shoulder. Stiles took another picture before lowering the camera and just staring, mouth hanging open again.

Slowly Derek moved, turning around and leaning back against the stool. He spread his legs wide and unfastened the kilt, letting it hang. Stiles took another picture, almost by reflex, as Derek let the leather drop lower and lower. It was barely clinging on to the bare minimum of decency for the magazine. Derek waited, letting his eyes roam up and down Stiles’s body, lingering particularly at the bulge in his jeans. 

All the times Stiles had faked arousal, he’d never looked like this, his lips slick where he couldn’t stop licking at them, tongue taunting Derek. The glisten of sweat at his temples, in the dip of his throat. His scent carried a fresh richness, earthy. And his eyes were wide and fixed on Derek. “I want you to lie down on the ground for me.”

Derek rose up to his full height for an instant before falling to his knees. The camera was back up, Stiles pressing the shutter desperately. Then he came forward and tugged the stool away, leaving space for Derek to lie down, full stretch. 

“Raise your hips.” Stiles’s voice had lost all of its tentativeness. Instead he was giving orders like he was born to it and Derek needed to obey. He punched his hips up on a groan, fucking the air. His cock was a heavy weight under the leather now, a pronounced bulge. This was already starting to go beyond what was publishable but it got even worse when Stiles ordered him to touch himself, his chest, his neck, his belly, the cut of his groin, tug the kilt lower again. “Now roll over.”

Derek rose to his hands and knees as he did, knowing that the top of his ass was going to be showing, the swell, maybe even a hint of the shadow between. He glanced another look at Stiles as he slowly lowered himself onto his elbows, knees wide.

Stiles took a picture, one more and then deliberately walked to the table and put the camera down on it. He held onto the edge of the table for a long moment before turning the music up until the baseline thudded through Derek’s bones. Then Stiles slowly, very slowly, peeled off his t-shirt, dropping it beside his shoes. Then he popped the button on his jeans, lowered the zip. “Turn over, Derek,” he commanded. “And lose the kilt.”

Derek hesitated a moment. Every atom in his body was telling him to obey, now, instantly, but a small part of his mind wanted to find out what would happen if he didn’t, if he forced Stiles to make him. A shiver ran over his skin at the thought. 

“Derek?” Stiles was closer and his voice was softer, wandering towards caring. “You okay?” But instead of speaking, Derek slipped off the kilt, threw it across the room, before rolling onto his back and spreading his legs, planting his feet wide. Stiles knelt in between his thighs, just looking. He let his eyes trail up Derek’s body, snagging for a moment on his hard cock, before meeting Derek’s eyes. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Yes. Please.” Derek couldn’t speak in more than a whisper, his old reluctance to speak around Stiles reasserting itself. Stiles took a deep breath before leaning forward, his hand coming to rest beside Derek’s shoulder, holding himself up. Derek felt another “Please” slip out before he could stop it.

That seemed to do the trick. Stiles lowered himself down, mouth irresistible and red as it came closer. Then Derek stopped cataloguing, memorizing, labeling and just felt. Stiles kissed like a dam had broken, like he was finally tasting water after weeks in the desert. Derek was no different, finally lowering his hands to touch Stiles’s skin, needing to feel it. He’d touched Stiles before, in all kinds of ways, but this wasn’t postured and practice or artificial. This was real.

Derek had to pull back to drag in breath, to check that Stiles was really there, that this wasn’t another one of his dreams. Stiles’s cock was hard against his, rubbing urgently.

“Fuck, Derek.” The words were a punched whisper before Stiles was back at Derek’s mouth, demanding, possessing. And Derek opened wide and just let him. He was glad for the heavy baseline of the music. There were entirely too many werewolves in this building to do this in silence. They’d hear every moan, every gasp. Every wet slide of skin. The way Stiles sounded when Derek wrapped his hand around his cock and starting stroking. Derek watched the way Stiles’s eyelashes fluttered shot and then forced themselves open again, as if Stiles didn’t want to miss a moment of this. They’d also hear the way the air just evaporated from Derek’s body when Stiles returned the favor, his hand tight around Derek’s cock.

Derek clutched at the back of Stiles’s neck and held on tight as he spun further and further out of control. He could feel his orgasm starting to build and knew he wanted to come all over Stiles. He wanted to mark him up, rub the scent into his skin, make Stiles his. Equally, he wanted to Stiles to come all over him, in him, keep him. Do it again and again so the mark of ownership was always fresh, always there. Derek bit back a murmur that was startlingly close to him chanting “Mine, mine, mine” and buried his face in Stiles’s neck as he came, unable to hold back anymore.

It was the feel of Stiles’s hand on his own that made Derek come back to earth, to start working Stiles again. They did it together, perfect synchronicity. “You can come, Stiles,” Derek panted into Stiles’s mouth. “Please.”

It was as if that was some kind of magic word. Stiles let out a groan, resting his forehead against Derek’s as he came. Derek kissed at the skin he could reach as Stiles collapsed against him, breathing hard, and ran his hand up and down Stiles’s smooth back, fingertips catching on the odd mole. 

Stiles pushed away from him, stumbling naked over to the table where he grabbed his camera. Derek was frozen, immobile, panicked until Stiles ran back, eyes wide. “Stay just there,” Stiles ordered.

Derek obeyed, a horrible sinking feeling settling into his gut. Stiles didn’t want him, didn’t want this. Stiles wanted a photograph to show Lydia he was a brilliant photographer, that he could get Derek to do almost anything, to make her take him away from Derek and have him work with everyone else and it wasn’t like Derek had any claim on Stiles anyway. He’d do anything for Stiles, let him have this.

Derek posed.

“No, not like that.” Stiles sounded exasperated, mildly comical as he stood there, comfortable in his own skin, glaring at Derek. “Just go back to the way you were.”

“What way?” Derek moved his hand to his stomach, trying to cover himself. It wasn’t like he and Stiles hadn’t been naked together in shoots before but he felt vulnerable, exposed.

Stiles watched him before slowly lowering himself to his knees beside Derek and then, tentatively, reaching out with his free hand and covering Derek’s. Then he moved his hand to the tacky come decorating Derek’s abs. “Is this okay?” Stiles started to rub his come into Derek’s skin.

Derek nodded, his throat dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“This means you’ll smell like me, right? To another werewolf? And they’d know we were…together?” Stiles spoke softly, watching his hand move on Derek’s skin. Then he looked up at Derek, face still and serious. “And you want that?” Derek nodded again. “You might have to tell me that, Derek. Sometimes your signals are a little mixed.”

Derek swallowed a few times. “I want that.” He bit back the words he wanted to say, again. Mine was in there as was forever.

“Okay.” Stiles smiled softly, his head ducked down, before he looked back at Derek. The music would have drowned out his words had Derek not been so close and had such good hearing. “And you want to do that to me as well?”

“Yes.” Derek needed to lick his lips before he could get the words out. He was gripped by terror. Saying this out loud made it real, made it something that could be used against him. Made him defenseless.

Stiles lifted his camera and took a picture. “This is for me, Derek. This photo.” Derek heard Stiles’s throat click as he swallowed, dryly. “I’d take it on my phone but I don’t have the special filters for your eyes these cameras have, you know. But I want to keep this photo.”

“Why?” Derek hitched out a breath as Stiles came to lie beside him, hooking a leg over Derek’s thighs and holding him close.

“Dude. I’m kinda in what Scott calls ‘epic puppy love’ with you. I’m thinking it’s a little less puppy and more, you know, just me. And I want a photo to remember this moment because that’s what I do. Take pictures. But I couldn’t resist that he made dog jokes about me when he’s a freaking werewolf.” Stiles let the words flow out just like he always did to cover up and hide what he was really trying to say. But Derek knew Stiles and he knew what Stiles was trying to tell him.

Derek let himself kiss Stiles to stop the flow of words. From Stiles’s enthusiastic response, it was clearly the right move. He had a lot to tell Stiles, about himself and about how he felt and about what Stiles meant to him. Words that would stick in his throat and have to be pushed out. But when he had Stiles holding him tight and in no danger of letting go, maybe he’d be able to say them.

“Dinner?” Derek offered, when the urgency of the kisses had slowed. “We could get out of here, anyway.”

“Go somewhere with a bed?” Stiles grinned, easy and happy and eager. “But. Shit. I have to get these downloaded for Lydia.”

“And you should get dressed.” Derek skimmed his hand over Stiles’s bare side, enjoying the feel. He could already start to smell the hints of fresh arousal in Stiles’s scent, feel the warmth rising to the surface again.

“You should put the kilt back on,” Stiles suggested, pulling away slowly, pressing another quick kiss before he stood up. “Or, just, you know, keep it. For later.”

Derek could manage that.


End file.
